


Ipomoea alba

by LiveOakWithMoss



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (Still), Anal Sex, Crude mistranslations of elvish phrases, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Finrod is a hippie and a nerd, Finrod is my Silm bicycle and this is his only happy ride, M/M, and has all the kinks for Beor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 05:22:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3196910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Finrod and Bëor enjoy an afternoon together and Bëor manages to hold Finrod’s attention quite entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ipomoea alba

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cygnete](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cygnete/gifts).



> 0\. Sequel to [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2801672), inspired (still), by [this](http://silmarillle.tumblr.com/post/105573860054/if-anyone-was-wondering-about-that-beor-finrod-fic). The smutty sequel, as promised.  
> 1\. For Silje, of course, who is quite obviously the Finrod to my Bëor, beautiful nerd that she is.

The clearing was still and warm in the afternoon sunlight. A faint breeze bent the grass, and a meadowlark clung to a thistle, bobbing gently. A cluster of pale, trumpet shaped flowers hugged the shady base of a nearby oak, and an open notebook lay before them, as if dropped by a distracted hand. The delicate outlines of several of the moonflowers were sketched in the notebook, and a curious beetle crawled slowly across the page, as if it examined the artist’s handiwork. In the distance, the murmur of a brook filtered through the quiet afternoon, and much, much further away, the throaty cry of a hunting horn rang out under the forest canopy.

A light laugh broke the stillness of the clearing, and the meadowlark took off from its perch. After the laugh came a low sigh, almost a moan, from one of the tents pitched in the center of the trodden down grass. It was followed by a gruff voice.

“Stop laughing, elf, I’m deadly serious here.”

“I know you are.”

“And yet you giggle on.”

“How dare you, I never giggle – _oh_.”

“See, that’s more what I was going for.”

Finrod’s voice was bordering on breathless from suppressed amusement, and perhaps from something else. “I cannot help it that certain things you choose to do are rather…rather…”

“Rather what?” Bëor’s voice was muffled, as though he were pressing his mouth to something.

“ _Ticklish_.”

“Elves are ticklish, eh? Let me make a note of that in my compendium.”

“I only did that once, will you stop teasing me about it?”

“Takin’ notes on technique, you were, on ‘Secondborn anatomy’, and ‘reaction time’ and something called a ‘refractory period’…”

“I apologized.”

“So you did.” Bëor’s voice dropped low, and Finrod let out a gasp. “Apologized quite handsomely, and made it very much worth my while, at that.”

“Oh, keep doing that – Right there – ” But Finrod broke off with a laugh again.

In the tent, Bëor sat back on his heels in exasperation. Finrod was arrayed before him, quite bare against the furs of Bëor’s bedroll, and just now flushed with laughter.

“You’re doin’ it again.”

“It’s not my fault.” Finrod pushed himself up on his elbows, his long golden hair falling over his shoulders. It was far more disheveled than usual, a look that suited him, in Bëor’s opinion. He reached out carefully and plucked one of the ghostly moonflowers from tangle of Finrod’s hair, and laid it next to the bedroll. The color was high on Finrod’s cheeks, his fair skin tinged pink, and there was a flush traveling up his chest as well. Having set the flower aside, Bëor traced a line down Finrod’s breast, marveling, as he always did, at the smooth, hairless skin.

“So the laughing is my fault, then. D’you find me amusing, princeling?”

Finrod lifted his chin, smiling, and gestured to the man. “Your _beard_ , you great  beautiful oaf. I quite enjoy all you were doing with your mouth, but there are certain areas in the vicinity that you brushed up against, and it _tickled._ ”

“Which areas?” Bëor ran a hand up Finrod’s thigh. “Just for future reference.”

Finrod widened his legs as Bëor’s rough fingers traced up his thigh and over the point of his hip. “You’ll only use it against me,” he murmured, the color darkening in his cheeks as Bëor bent down to rub his face against Finrod’s low belly, pressing a grin to the jut of his pelvis. “I know you better than that. I can _see_ you plotting, o chieftain.”

“I know a way to fix that, o lord,” said Bëor. He kissed Finrod’s belly once, then seized the elf by the hips and flipped him over in one easy motion. Finrod gasped out a laugh against the furs, and then Bëor was pressed up against him from behind, knees nudging Finrod’s thighs apart, broad arms braced on either side of Finrod’s shoulders so that when Finrod made to push himself up, he only succeeded in slotting himself back against the man’s body.

“Can’t see me plotting now, can you?” Bëor breathed into Finrod’s ear, tongue lightly tracing the point. Supporting himself on one hand, he ran the other up Finrod’s lean arm to his shoulder, and then to his throat. He wrapped his fingers lightly around Finrod’s throat, and Finrod groaned. Bëor had only recently discovered Finrod’s weakness for touch at his throat, and how he reacted when Bëor pressed gently down on it, making his breath catch and his hips grind back against Bëor’s.

 _Amazing that we could ever think these creatures chaste and cold_ , Bëor thought, _Not when I’ve discovered an ever growing list of things that make this one writhe hard and hot up against me…_

“Hardly a _list_ ,” Finrod protested, his voice muffled, as he leaned forward into Bëor’s hand, “Two or three things, no more.”

Bëor shivered. “You’re doin’ that uncanny fey thing again. I told you, no poking around in my head.”

Finrod stilled, and Bëor’s hand dropped from his throat. Finrod turned his head so he could press his lips to the corner of Bëor’s mouth. “My apologies,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to. When we are close, like this, it is easier for the boundaries of minds to slide open, and sometimes…it is as clear as if you are speaking into my ear…”

“You’re not making it less uncanny,” said Bëor, shivering again, and tucking his face into the crook of Finrod’s neck.

“I am sorry.”

Bëor didn’t say anything, but kissed the warm skin of Finrod’s shoulder, not raising his eyes to the elf’s face. Finrod gave a quiet murmur of contrition and stretched his arms forward to stroke his fingers over the back of Bëor’s hands, his hips rolling back languorously against Bëor’s groin.

“Didn’t you say something about us needing to be expedient, lest your men return from the hunt and interrupt us?”

“Aye.” Bëor hooked an arm under Finrod’s hips, tugging him onto all fours. “Grab the oil, would you?”

Finrod reached out a long arm to snag the small vial in the corner of the tent, and Bëor took it from him with a murmur of thanks. He knelt behind the elf as Finrod raised himself on hands and knees, and ran an oil-slicked hand over his thick erection. He then moved his hand to slide between Finrod’s buttocks, and Finrod dropped his head between his arms, letting out a breathless exclamation in his own tongue.

“I know that one,” said Bëor, regaining his good humor. “Elvish for _bury it in me, but deep_ , isn’t it?”

“More or less,” said Finrod, pressing himself back against Bëor’s teasing fingers. “Don’t take too long.”

The first time Bëor had taken Finrod to his bed, he had been solicitous and careful, fearful of hurting this slim creature who appeared so fragile. Finrod had quickly disabused him of such notions. Finrod was deceptively lean, but powerful, and had demonstrated early on that he was anything but breakable. These demonstrations had also showed Bëor that if anything, the elf enjoyed a bit of roughness in lovemaking. He’d quickly grown used to Bëor’s girth, and so Bëor didn’t linger over long on preparing him. Instead he aligned the head of his cock at Finrod’s entrance and began to press in, slowly, as Finrod cursed again in Elvish, his hair sliding over his shoulders to fall in curtains around his face.

Bëor leaned forward over his back, still slowly working himself into Finrod’s body, and brushed Finrod’s hair away from his face. He wound the long tresses around his fist, tugging lightly to bring Finrod’s head up. Finrod moaned, his head arching back, and Bëor held back a groan of pleasure as he slid in all the way.

“Ai,” whispered Finrod. “Bëor…”

“I haven’t forgotten you.” Bëor reached down to wrap a hand around Finrod’s hard cock, and his fingers slipped in the wetness already leaking down the shaft. “Mmm,” he growled, giving Finrod a light stroke and then bringing his hand up to lick his fingers. “Eager, aren’t you?”

“You’re the one who threw me bodily in here to have your way with me,” said Finrod, as Bëor tugged his hair again and returned his hand to Finrod’s erection. “Now I suggest you get to it before I…” He broke off with a strangled cry as Bëor thrust deep and simultaneously pulled him back to bite at the nape of his neck. “ _Elbereth._ ”

“Who’s she?”

“Oh, do shut up and fuck me.”

“Fine words for an elvish lord.” But Bëor grinned and obliged him.

 

-

 

The meadowlark was long gone from the clearing, and an indolent butterfly had replaced the beetle on Finrod’s abandoned notebook. The hunting horn had not sounded in the distance for a while now.

The tent smelled of sweat and sex, and the furs were entirely too hot against their skin as man and elf collapsed down against them.

After taking a moment to slow his pulse, and his breathing, Bëor stretched himself out against Finrod’s back, and reached out to pick up the discarded flower he’d plucked from Finrod’s hair. He spun it idly between his fingers.

“Pretty thing, this.”

“It’s quite toxic,” Finrod murmured, his voice hoarse and his face pillowed against his arms.

“I’ll make sure not to eat it, then.” Bëor tucked the flower behind Finrod’s ear, and laid his hand over Finrod’s belly, one of his many favorite places to touch, as he settled down against the furs. “Trust you to adorn yourself with something comely and liable to kill.”

“You should just be glad I chose this and not the woody nightshade I was sketching earlier.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

They lay together in contented silence for a while, until Finrod stirred in Bëor’s arms. “Your men are returning.”

Bëor opened his eyes and listened, frowning. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Nevertheless, they will be here in about five minutes.”

Bëor, who had long since learned to take Finrod’s word on such things, sighed and sat up reluctantly. Finrod sat up too, and the flower dropped from his hair. He got to his feet in one elegant movement, and bent to gather his discarded clothes. Bëor dragged on his trousers as well, now able to hear the sound of voices and tromping feet that signaled his men’s return.

“You dropped your flower again.”

Finrod turned, and smiled. He scooped up the flower and slipped it behind Bëor’s ear. “It suits you,” he murmured, and kissed Bëor on the lips.

“I look a fool,” called Bëor as Finrod ducked through the tent flap and made his way back to his notebook. “Hunh. Sentimental elvish nonsense.” But he raised curious fingers to the pale flower, and didn’t remove it.

It was important to humor sentimental elves sometimes, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> 2\. _Ipomoea alba_ is the Latin name for the moonflower Finrod was studying.


End file.
